


Turns Out  I’m the One Who Likes to Hear My Screams

by shadesfalcon



Series: Mokusatsu [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Because you can pry Sam Wilson/Riley out of my cold dead fingers, Bisexual Sam Wilson, Bondage, Caning, Canon-Typical Violence, Dom Sam Wilson, Dom/sub, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, I mean it, Knifeplay, Masochism, Painplay, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Power Dynamics, Punishment, Recovery, Red Room (Marvel), Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Sexual Content, Sub Natasha Romanov, Trauma, Whipping, i agonize over every though and potential plot point, see that part where I said knifeplay?, tagging is literally the worst part of starting a new fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2019-03-02
Packaged: 2019-09-17 08:47:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16971483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesfalcon/pseuds/shadesfalcon
Summary: Balancing reclamation with addiction is difficult, Natasha reminds her reflection. To love the pain Sam gives her isn't wrong. To enjoy their sex isn't fulfilling the Red Room's purpose for her. To follow SHIELD's orders isn't giving over her personhood. But that doesn't mean she should accept every pain, fuck every time, and take every shot.Natasha and Sam are learning the balancing act of their growing relationship, but being an Avenger means there is no status quo. A long lost love from her Russian winter, new teams and loyalties, and a sweet selfless archer whose version of submission might get him killed all seemed determined to catch her off balance. Fortunately, both she and Sam learned to roll with the punches a long time ago.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I know a lot of people were waiting for the second part of Clint's story with Steve and Bucky, but it was giving me so much trouble that I decided to do this one first instead. The boys will be around in this one, and I'll get back to their POV in part three.
> 
> To those who haven't read the first work, do as you please, lol. Hopefully the internal world building supports itself enough that starting here isn't too confusing.
> 
> (Now let's see how many typos in the prologue that I notice the moment after I click post.)

“Don’t,” Natalia whispers.

The water is a foot deeper than she had expected. Ice cold and moving fast around her shins. With her level of exhaustion, just keeping her feet is a monumental effort.

Natalia’s opponent looks painfully fresh and ready to press that advantage. She must have hidden - staying out of the battle royale - and Natalia would respect the cerebral strategy, if it weren’t being used against her.

Her monosyllabic and immediately regretted requisition for mercy is ignored.  The following fight is brief and painful. Natalia goes under with finality.

Nearing death in the Red Room is always hit or miss. It’s impossible to tell which exercises are meant to be failed and which are not. Natalia’s inhaled water and static electricity vision are accompanied by a firm internal acknowledgment that this could be the moment of her death.

But her unconsciousness is short-lived. She’s wrenched into breathability by a jerk on her arm that nearly dislocates her shoulder, and then she’s vomiting water and mucus onto the bank of the river.

An exercise meant to be failed then. Or maybe just a culling of the herd, and she had lasted long enough to be spared. Either way, it doesn’t save her from the beating that follows.

“Place your hands in the outlined area,” the voice drones, with an unexpected German accent.

Natalia can’t figure out if it’s better or worse when the dom is bored. It doesn’t scratch the itching need for punishment as well, but at least it doesn’t leave her feeling weak and dirty. There’s something contaminating about the doms that enjoy her pain on a personal level. The ones who take Interest.

“You are to be whipped for the infraction of a minor course failure,” the dom continues, voice still empty and without inflection. “Do not move your hands for the duration of the punishment. If you remove your hands, or otherwise inhibit the punishment, the punishment will resume from the beginning. Should you be deemed in need of immediate medical attention, treatment will be provided at the discretion of the administration.”

 _Bullshit_ , Natalia thinks to herself for the millionth time.

“Any questions or comments?”

_Yeah, catch me falling for that._

“No, sir,” she says out loud.

“Do you understand and accept this punishment?”

“Yes, sir.”

There’s no time for even a breath in before the single tail lashes a stripe into her back. Which is fine, given the subsequent lack of air for screaming. She hates screaming on the first stroke more than she hates the strokes that follow.

Not that she doesn’t scream. Everybody screams eventually. But if you start out with screaming, then you have nowhere to escalate to, when it really gets bad.

The beginning always hurts more than the middle, though. Especially now. She’s been sitting naked in the cold room, slowly drip-drying, for far too long. Her muscles are tight and sore, although they'll now warm quickly enough.

The second lash establishes the rhythm, with its sharp intention of pain, and she tries to settle herself. It’s hard to remember to breathe at first. Like automatically holding your breath through a difficult workout. It’s tempting until you’re about to pass out.

At least she’s regulating the timing well this round. Each stripe that etches a welt into her skin is match by a controlled breath out through pursed lips. And even though she isn’t sure how many are coming, she isn’t worried. Especially not for a technicality offense. She’s endured worse before, and she will again.

The middle is pretty straightforward, lulling her into subspace with the lie of peace. Her body and mind struggle to stay there within the hazy ribbons of consistent pain, sinking willingly, and then being pulled deeper unwillingly. She moves past the steady warmth and through into the sharper punishment.

The ending is always the worst. The part where she misses the days when they were younger and were given the privilege of knowing how many strokes. How long. Now, she just starts screaming once she can’t keep it in anymore and hopes for the best.

It isn’t actually that much longer. The dom finishes up with a few more lashes, ones that probably draw blood, and then stills the constant movement of the whip. Natalia is slightly impressed, honestly. It had been a perfect whipping, from a technical aspect, and she can’t help but hope the dom will take care of her afterward.

Some of them do. Less and less often now that all the girls are getting older and more independent. The Red Room is trying to wean them off needing anything from a dom at all. but some of the older doms still do something. A hand through the hair, or a soft kiss to the cheek. A quiet, “well handled,” that can make all the difference.

Natalia rolls her shoulders, trying to figure out where any injuries are, and reminds herself she doesn’t need any comfort. That’s not why she’s in this program.

“Leave your hands in the outlined area,” the dom says behind her, and Natalia’s blood runs a little colder with the sudden adrenaline.

“You are to be whipped for the infraction of rebellion. Do not move your hands for the duration of the punishment. If you remove your hands, or otherwise inhibit the punishment, the punishment will resume from the beginning. Should you be deemed in need of immediate medical attention, treatment will be provided at the discretion of the administration.”

 _Wait_ , Natalia thinks frantically. What rebellion? She’s never committed rebellion. Not ever.

“Any questions or comments?”

“I, sir, I…” Natalia begins shakily. “I don’t know when I acted rebelliously. I’m sorry, I...I don’t….” She trails off at the cold silence behind her. Eventually, it draws on long enough that the dom continues.

“Do you understand and accept this punishment?”

“......I,”

She’s never said anything but yes. She doesn’t know how to say anything other than yes.

“Yes, sir.”

This time, the first lash hurts enough that she makes a noise between her teeth that cannot be a scream. It can’t. She’s been budgeting her endurance for an entry level infraction and now this? She can’t afford to scream now. They’re going to take the skin off her back. If she screams now, what will she do next?

The second lash is the agony of the first again, embittered with the settling realization that she has to endure this. She has to. They can tout medical intervention all they want, but they’ll let this kill her if they feel they need to.

The scream shredding the inside of her throat is wholly her own, rough and tearing at the delicate mucosa. She leans into the wall so her entire forearms are braced against it. It changes the angle of the stripes in the slightest way, and that will help for a while. Pressing her forehead to the cold concrete, she imagines herself as the frost. As the freezing chunks of ice in the stream this morning. As the raw scraping pain of cold hands against rough objects.

They’ve thought she would break before. The smallest of the girls. Big wide eyes that had trusted everything they’d seen. Trusted every dom with an implicate faith that made them shiver. Her instructors held little hope for her survival in the program.

But they were wrong. She didn’t break then, and if they think she’ll break now, they’ll just be wrong again.

She steels herself.

She contemplates the pain of the third lash in absolute silence. Considers its facets. Traces the line of it in her mind. Fixates on its sting. Imagines it spreading all the way around her body like an embrace until she acknowledges its place in her life. Her existence as its home.

So many more lashes have fallen by the time she finds herself in that mindset, and she lets the numbers go, along with the idea that this will ever stop. Because of this, she doesn’t know how long the illusion holds her safe before it shatters.

It’s like being pulled out of a drop. The cocoon cracks away like ash, and she doesn't know if she’s been screaming again for a while already, or if this first scream just hurts that much with its force.

There’s nothing but screaming after that. Screaming and the sweaty wall. Her hands have moved from their original position, straying far too close along the edge of their boundary. The dom could call it a restart if he wanted to. It would probably kill her, but he could do it. He’s saving her life with his silence.

She counts in sets of ten. Promises herself she’ll get through ten more. And then starts over at one again.

She stops screaming before the whip stops falling. She’s sobbing as loudly as her ruined throat and and exhausted muscles will let her, and she has never yet in her young life wanted so much to give up.

“This concludes the punishment for your infraction,” the voice informs her, and she sinks to her knees with a wail, letting gravity take her all the way to the floor. She knows now why they’d chosen a dom with such flawless technique. She can feel the blood dripping around her body and onto the floor, but she’ll recover. Her body will knit itself back into the perfection, aided by the Red Room’s technology and experimentation. She will not bleed out, neither externally or internally.

The dom must have finished giving the concluding speech, but Natalia hadn’t heard it. She does notice when he kneels beside her, and the anger at this treatment wars with her desire to be a good sub. A good soldier. A good girl.

“Do you know why?” he asks softly, running his hand along the top of her head. Petting her hair, even as it begins to absorb her own pooling blood. Medical will be here soon, and she lets herself listen to the voice of the man above her.

She manages to shake her head in silent answer to the question. It smears escaped strands of hair through the blood on the concrete.

“Don’t,” the dom quotes softly, and Natalia suddenly remembers her half-aborted single syllable request for mercy. Arguably a command, or a warning to her enemy. Yet still, at its heart, an attempt at a begging cop out.

Do not ask for mercy.

She knows they must have learned other rules first, but it’s the first one they all remembering knowing. Do not ask for it. Do not beg for it. Do not negotiate for it. Not as subs, not as soldiers, not as agents.

She’d start crying again, if she weren’t still. Such a quick little word that she hadn’t even noticed, but they’re right. Rebellion. Direct disobedience, and she hates herself for the unnoticed weakness.

“Sorry,” she gasps. “I’m sorry.”

“I’ve never heard an apology sound so much like begging,” the dom chides, and it’s a masterful tone, cutting deep with its blend of disappointment and dismissal.

There’s her anger again. Flaring. Useless.

She grits her teeth together, screws her eyes shut, and screams between clenched teeth.

“Please may I have ten more!”

Ten. Such a terrifying word for such a simple single syllable.

There’s more than enough time in the ensuing silence for Natalia to regret her decision; to consider all the further implications of disobedience or rebellion.

“Why?” the dom finally asks, standing up.

She sobs with relief at the opportunity and shouts, “To remind me that I exist to endure!”

Another considering pause while she tries not to tremble too much.

“Place both hands flat down against the concrete,” he orders, and Natalia complies without hesitation, spreading her fingers wide apart as points of contact.

He is so very kind to her with the ten lashes that follow. He brings them down onto her ass and thighs, avoiding the shredded meat of her back entirely. They bring their own pain, but they’re almost nothing in comparison. Not with how well aimed they are.

The cracking noise of the last lash has almost faded by the time she chokes the question out again.

“Please may I have ten more?”

There is a very long wait after that. And then, slowly, the lashes fall on her thighs again.

“Please may I have ten more?”

Again, a wait, and this times the whip falls on her back again, and Natalia finds she still has a few screams left in her.

“Please,” she pants, and then has to stop and start over. “Please, may I have ten more?”

“No, Natalia,” the dom says softly, and it feels so good to hear her name on his lips. “Hush,” he soothes softly, hand in her bloody red hair again. “Shhh, we’re done. You’re forgiven. You’re forgiven.”

She either drifts or passes out.

Either way, she wakes to the white walls of medical, and when she does, she doesn’t say anything at all. She just stares up at the white ceiling, and considers carefully.

 

***

 

“She makes the quickest progress,” Vasilieva comments, moving the sliding bar on the video back and forth fast enough that Natalia’s punishment plays out backwards and forwards with cartoonish impossible speed.

“It’s because she responds so well to being broken,” Meier praises, his Russian halting but understandable. “You can take her so much further every time. The others need more time for mental recovery, and sometimes pushing them so far means they break completely.”

“What do you think, Mikhailov?” Vasilieva asks, turning to the other man in the observation room, her calm expression showing no response to their ally’s mixed praise and insult.

“I don’t know,” Mikhailov says slowly. “It seems to me that she didn’t break much at all.”

“She was screaming on the ground,” Meier scoffs.

“And asking for more at every opportunity. She didn’t break. She bent. And then she came out on top again.”

“That was on top? I hate to see what it looks like when a Russian loses.”

Mikhailov and Vasilieva make quiet eye contact.

“You should check on your man,” Mikhailov says instead. “What was his name? Kazimir? The dom you had whip her.”

“He’s very good, right?” Meier grins.

“His technique was impressive. But you should check on him.”

“Why?”

“Because she dropped him,” Vasilieva interjects calmly. “She had him in the palm of her hand, and then she was dragged away from him. He’s most likely wandering the halls looking for her, without even realizing that’s what he’s doing.”

Meier looks back and forth between his two Russian counterparts for a moment, trying to ascertain whether or not they’re joking. When he’s only met with still and uncommunicative faces, he turns on his heel and leaves the room without further comment.

“Her class hasn’t yet learned how to use a dom’s drop to their own advantage like that, correct?” Mikhailov asks.

“You’re correct. And that’s precisely why I’m worried about her loyalty. She keeps slipping out of our nets.”

“You wanted an unbreakable army, my dear,” Mikhailov shrugs. “An agent that will bend submissive, but never break. You cannot build a spy or a soldier who does not break to the enemy, and then exclaim surprise that they do not break to you, either.”

Vasilieva makes a noise of simultaneous frustration and agreement, her gaze again fixated on the replay of the little prodigy’s punishment, and she thinks to herself that maybe the brutish and inconsistent Winter Soldier program has at least a few merits. Assuming their claim is true, and they’ve indeed managed to find the line between unbreakable and broken.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I had a short stint at the Emergency Room, lol, but we're all good now. Back to our regularly scheduled program, hopefully.

 

 

 

Coulson's masterfully bland expression has been a lifetime in the making, and he's rarely as grateful for it as he is at this moment. He winds his way around another dirty red pleather loveseat and keeps his eyes off the subs dancing on the stages. He's a professional. He will not start shooting people over the dangerous bruising and ready-to-cry expressions he keeps noticing out of the corner of his eye. Even if he needs to keep reminding himself of that fact in order to keep it true.

He masterfully side steps around a trembling tray-laden employee, and continues toward his first mark. A burly dom is overseeing his disease-ridden kingdom with the air of someone who thinks they're the best because no one has ever told them otherwise to their face. There's a pair of subs kneeling at his feet, one man and one woman, and they're strained with tension, leaning away without actually moving away.

“I hear you're the man to talk to about a sub who likes to be hurt,” Coulson says with a deliberate sneer.

The expressions feels fake on his face. Not up to his professional level of impersonation, but he can't bring himself to commit all the way. Not to deal with a two-bit wanna be. Not with the confrontation he's about to have looming in his mind.

“Fifteen hundred,” the man grunts, “and you get an hour to do whatever you want beside kill her or maim her.”

“Done,” Coulson says, without hesitating over the ridiculous number. He could whine the man down, but he's just going to be collecting that money in an hour when SHIELD takes this place to the ground on charges of sub trafficking.

To the pimp's credit, he doesn't let his expression show any surprise at Coulson counting out fifteen hundred dollars in twenties. But then again, the guy has definitely seen weirder shit than a man in a suit counting out a grand and a half without arguing. Either way, at a snap of fingers the male sub is on his feet in an instant, demurely leading Coulson into a sketchy back hall.

_If I'm about to get jumped, I'm going to be so pissed._

It’s an errant thought that doesn’t come to fruition. Instead there are a couple of turns that are intended to be maze-like, and then the sub gently knocks on one of the unmarked doors. The knock is clearly more of an announcement than a request for permission, because the young sub immediately pushes the door open.

“Enjoy, sir,” he tells Coulson quietly, eyes perfectly on the floor. It’s a toxic submission - as evidenced by the tremble in the boy’s shoulders - but Coulson doesn’t have time to address it. He pushes into the room.

She’s stunning.

The room is gritty and small, made to seem smaller by a poorly placed wall cutting the space in half for no good reason. The green wallpaper is peeling and clashing with the red carpet in a grisly facsimile of Christmas cheer, and the entire tableau is poorly lit by one standing lamp with a low wattage, presumably to hide any missing teeth or diseased skin.

It is such a poor decision on their part for this particular sub, because she is stunning. Dirty and devoid of expression, sprawled naked in unclean sheets and not making the slightest effort to make herself inviting or alluring, and she takes Coulson’s breath away for a solid heartbeat.

He gets himself back together quickly enough, and he hopes the momentary thoughts had stayed off his face. He’s a pro, but so is she. They’re working off microexpressions at this point. Motivations being read in how long the gaze is held or not held.

“Natalia,” he greets reverently.

She doesn’t give away any surprise at hearing her name. Or maybe she hadn’t been surprised in the first place. It’s hard to tell with the Black Widows. Those that had survived to scatter across the world at their program’s dissolution had shown a nearly precognitive ability to identify and evaluate incoming danger.

“Sir,” Natalia smiles predatorily. “What are you feeling today?”

Coulson stays by the door and wishes May had been available for this mission.

“I’m here with a proposition,” Coulson teases the innuendo carefully. “Thought you might be interested in hearing it out.”

She cocks her head to the side with an entirely different expression. This one is polite and open, and the change is disconcerting. It’s not like someone flipping a switch. It’s not a change from one person into another. It’s as though the girl of a moment ago had never existed.

“What would you like to tell me?” this new one asks.

“I’m here to offer you a job,” Coulson continues, deciding that maintaining is the best option here. To stay steady as the person he came in as. Let her change around him.

“On behalf of?” she continues sweetly.

“SHIELD.”

“I wouldn’t know who that is.”

Coulson can’t tell if she means the comment at face value, or if she means that her current facade wouldn’t know who that is. He finds the former unlikely, but without clear direction either way he isn’t sure what to say next. So he says nothing at all, trying to make her do most of the work.

Sure enough, after another slow blink, Natalia is someone else again. Has always been someone else again. She doesn’t even cock her head to a different angle this time. She doesn't move at all. She’s just different, somewhere behind her eyes.

“And what happens if I say no, Agent?”

This persona is closer to the actual Natalia.

“Whatever you want to happen. I didn’t come equipped to take down a Black Widow. I came equipped to take down a sub trafficking ring.”

“Didn’t know I was here?”

Coulson ignores the question and continues, “I’m interested bringing you under SHIELD’s protection.”

“I notice you keep using that word. ‘I.’ Where’s the ‘we’ so commonly expected from a large organization like SHIELD?”

“I don’t--”

“Furthermore, I don’t need your protection. If you’re knowledgeable enough to understand how trying to take me alive will cost more than it’s worth, then you know how capable I am already. Stop playing with my time. It’s valuable.”

“I’ll clarify. I’m interested in protecting you from yourself. I acknowledge that the outside world at large poses minimal threat to you, if that. We are all, however, our own worst enemies.”

“Now you’re insulting me. Your recruitment tactics are flawless.”

The dry wit is encouraging. It means she’s still engaging with him, and he presses into that.

“I’m the best in my field,” he says, grinning with genuine enjoyment.

Natalia snorts delicately, but offers no further comment, leaving the ball in Coulson’s court.

“I notice you haven’t asked any questions about my job offer,” he tries.

“I’ve heard the recruitment pitch before.”

“Not from me.”

“No, but I’ve heard it from SHIELD.”

This is news to Coulson, and he absorbs it carefully. He had, in fact, been assured repeatedly that no contact had been made with this particular Black Widow. He hopes the error is on the level of misfiled paperwork, rather than the more sinister possibility of a rogue event.

“I wasn’t aware of any such attempt,” he says, because honesty is a good hand when dealing with agents who lie to themselves as often as they lie to the world. Then he continues, “However, it’s not like it would take much to improve your current circumstances.”

“I’m here of my own free will, whatever anyone else in the building may think.”

“Which brings me back to my point about needing protection from yourself. I’ve seen a lot of desperate attempts from both doms and subs to get the care they need, so this doesn’t really surprise me. That doesn’t mean I approve.”

There’s the slightest curl of her lips in response to the slightest touch of dom in his tone.

“Don’t play that game with me,” she warns him coldly, turning into yet another persona. This one sends a shiver down his back, even though he cannot for the life of him decide whether or not it's a shiver of fear.

“If you’re allowed to keep changing the rules, then so am I,” he says.

“See? I’ve heard this before. SHIELD is infamous for it’s carrot and stick dual policy.”

“I didn’t bring my stick. I’m just not interested in bringing you in with a fight. I prefer you walk through the doors of your own free will.”

“I also prefer my enemies to go where I want them under their own will. It’s a specialty of mine.”

She sighs and leans back into the pillows again, releasing her breath and her spell at the same time, and Coulson is slightly terrified to realize he’s taken not one, but two steps toward her bed. He doesn’t remember taking them.

“Noted,” he says dryly.

She smiles with an expression Coulson can only describe as “bratty”, so he assumes she’s slipped into another persona.

“Are you showing off?” he asks suddenly. “You’re flipping through identities like a card trick. It feels like an audition.”

It’s a hit. Maybe the first solid one he’s gotten on her, and she can’t quite hide it. Or maybe she isn’t trying to. Maybe she doesn’t know how to ask for what she wants. Maybe she only knows how to provide her enemy with the opening to give it to her.

“Do you want the job or not?” he asks.

“Does it come with dental?”

“Natalia,” he chides, risking pushing at her with authority in his voice. “You can’t stay here. You’re weren’t made for this.”

“Are there people who are made for this?”

“Most people aren’t _made_ for anything,” he reminds her gently. “Most people just are. You know full well you're an exception.”

“Now you’re just being mean.”

“I can promise you immunity from past crimes. I can promise you access to whatever form of submission suits you with whatever dom you choose. I can prom--”

“I don’t need submission to any dom. I wasn’t _made_ for it.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I’m keeping up my skill sets,” she shrugs. “At least no one asks questions here. Except for you. It’s considered rude, you know. You should work on that.”

Coulson eyes the deeper cuts running down her upper arm, and the nasty burn on one breast. She knows what he’s looking at, but she keeps her eyes on his face like it’s an act of defiance.

“It’s not like they can really hurt me,” she enunciates. Coulson can’t tell if the clipped tone is because she wants to close that line of conversation or if she’s trying to invite him to open it. He backs away from it, both because he doesn’t want to follow it and because it’s not good to always give her what she wants. He’s already learning she doesn’t like that.

“I’ve been given a relative carte blanche to deal with your case. I’m interested in your well being, because I honestly believe giving you what you need is the best way to make you an asset. I’m not disguising my desire to recruit you. I’m emphasizing the mutually beneficial nature of the arrangement, and I’m pointing out that you’re going to have to pick something, even if you pick freelance. This…” he waves his hand generically. “This _statis_ won’t entertain you for long. I’m asking you to keep us in mind when you eventually decide. I’m telling you that I’m prepared to make it worth your while.”

“SHIELD pays shit. Everyone knows it.”

“I’m not talking financially worth your while, and you know it. Although I’m sure an exception could be made for someone of your reputation, if that’s really what you’re demanding. Somehow, though, I figured your requests would be a little less base. And you’re right in what you’re thinking. There’s no way I can promise you’ll find what you’re looking for at SHIELD. But I can sure as hell promise you’ll never find it here.”

He leaves without her dismissing him. It’s not that much of a power move, but he thinks it’s the best he’s going to get. Continuing the conversation wouldn’t have ended anywhere nice, and it’s time to take this place to the ground anyway. People are awaiting his signal.

He strides down the dark halls on his own, ignoring the noises behind the closed doors and instead focusing on the sound of his own sure footsteps. It had been a long shot anyway, but he’d had to try, and now all he can do it hope he made an impression.

Somehow, he thinks he wasn’t the ideal personality to approach her. She was made of protocol on the outside, but not so much underneath. It should have been someone less...competent.

Nothing to be done about it now. Hopefully she was desperate enough for a safe offer that she’d consider it. Otherwise he’d have to start devoting resources to taking her down, and no one was going to win that fight.

He reaches the side exit just as the doors down in the front lobby burst open and the screaming begins, fading away quickly enough when the door closes behind him. It’s a long cold walk in the dark night around to the front of the building again, where the car is waiting for him. He could stick around and see the outcome of the raid, but he knows what it will be already. Minor injuries. A hundred arrests and protective custodies. Natalia nowhere to be seen. Maybe a lipstick kiss placed in the corner of her bathroom mirror. She does that sometimes, for her own amusement when she knows someone is coming behind her. They’d never been able to get DNA off it. The lipstick had always been applied too thickly.

Coulson gets into the driver’s side of the black SUV and resists a shiver when his clothing absorbs the cold from the leather seats, leeching further into his skin. He doesn’t turn on the seat warmer, for some stupid reason. Some combination of guilt at the abuse he’d just witnessed and a desire to resist the frivolous. It just means he shivers his way through backing out of the area and pulling back onto the main row. He might as well get back to his office. The paperwork alone for this operation is going to be a nightmare. Not to mention decisions about all the recovered subs. Sorting and processing and assigning. It’s going to be a long night, full of tedious labor and unwanted playthroughs of his conversation with Natalia.

He should have pushed the dom thing more. It wouldn’t have spooked her unduly. She’s had more aggressive pitches, he’s sure. He probably came off as weak. Her intuition was probably put off by the whole affair.

He sighs heavily and carefully uses his blinker before changing lanes.

***

It’s four weeks to the hour until he sees her again. He thinks that’s significant, somehow. Like she’d decided to wait for exactly four weeks and hadn’t been able to hold out an hour longer. He can’t prove it, but he files the thought away.

“Make yourself at home, Natalia” he says calmly. He’s been in the job for a long time. This isn’t the first time he’s come home to find someone sitting at his kitchen table. The coffee she made smells burnt and a little sour, and she isn’t drinking out of the mug sitting in front of her.

“I go by Natasha now,” she informs him sharply. “And I’m here to ask what you would want me to do? Some job in particular? Or like a commissioning case-by-case basis?”

“SHIELD tries to stay away from commissioning freelancers. The temptation to just outsource the more unsavory tasks is too high. If something needs to be done, we should have the integrity to do it ourselves.”

“That is _not_ a response to the question I ask,” she snaps. Likely a ruse, at least in part. She’s still manipulating him with holes in her masks. Bringing him where she wants him. Fortunately, he wants to be where she’s bringing him this time.

“We’re interested in a temporal contract,” he answers. “A full contract. You’ll be SHIELD in every way. Our resources, our protection, our policies regarding w--.”

“Your rules to follow.”

“Have you ever been a part of an establishment that didn’t have rules?” he feigns surprise. “I rather think it couldn’t have lasted long if such an organization did exist.”

She’s shaking. Coulson wonders if that’s something she’s capable of faking.

“We do have dental, by the way,” he comments. “I don’t think I got a chance to say last time.”

She snorts delicately before asking, “And you’ll be in charge of me?”

“I will be in charge of your in-processing,” he corrects. “I won’t have any authority over you. I’m not qualified. But I’ll be your advocate. Your point of contact. I’ll assign the people who will work toward your integration.”

She nods carefully, and Coulson is suddenly grateful for his job. SHIELD has cultivated a reputation, and after decades it’s finally getting them the trust to work recovery operations like this one. He could be working a lot of places with significantly less stellar moral credentials.

“Well?” she asks the silence.

“Well, what?”

She smiles predatorily. Smiles in way that’s supposed to strike fear into the heart of her adversary. But there’s too much trembling at the corners. He wonders how long it’s been since anyone or anything dropped her. Probably years - if he’s being honest - and the thought is a punch to the gut.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he promises. But she rolls her eyes at the words she’s heard from a hundred doms, and Coulson tries not to be insulted that they hadn’t sounded different coming from him. Maybe one day someone’s words will. Although, to look at her, Coulson can’t help but doubt it.

***

Natasha narrows her eyes at Bhatt. The younger sub has been having trouble at home of some kind, and the wear and tear is starting to show in the workplace. Not in actually doing her job, yet, but today she’s wearing sweatpants. Actual _fucking_ sweatpants. They’re gray and soft-looking and there isn’t even elastic in the waist. Practically yoga pants. Natasha sits carefully in her suit and tries not to obsess over the fucking sweatpants. She assumes that this is too far even for the more relaxed SHIELD. Someone will say something eventually. Sanders is squad leader. He’ll say something. It’s his job.

Just...the _audacity_. Natasha can’t understand it. There’s a level of professionalism and mutual respect inherent to these jobs. Everyone else in the room is wearing either tactical gear or a suit of some kind, and if Bhatt’s dom is hitting her too hard or some shit, the woman needs to put her hand-to-hand training to use and then leave the asshole. Slouching her way into a morning briefing dressed like a yoga teacher is not an answer.

Not everywhere is like the Red Room. She knows that. She’s not expecting Bhatt to have her back flayed. She’s not even expecting the woman to get fired. But Jesus, if Sanders doesn’t walk in her and tear her a new one verbally, then Natasha might be out. An organization that can’t hold their agents to the barest semblance of a dress code cannot be trusted to train them properly for the field either.

Natasha is sitting at her place around the table while the rest of the team mills around or walks into the room dangerously close to being late. Walsh and Berger are talking about some psychological nonsense, but that makes sense since Berger has a background in field training and Walsh specializes in conflict resolution.

Natasha knows she needs to integrate herself into the team as a whole, but she just can’t seem to find the energy. She smudges her fingers along the table, leaving streaks of oil behind on the varnish. Integration is not mandatory. She’ll hold off for now. It’s not like they’re about to be sent into the field. Mostly they’re working on readiness and additional training and shit like that.

Morse slides into the seat next to her, which is probably a blessing since she’s the only person on the team that Natasha has any real respect for. And she’s in a mood today. Bhatt in her fucking sweatpants is just grating away.

“How are you liking the team so far?” Morse asks pleasantly enough.

Natasha doesn’t answer, but she glances pointedly at Bhatt.

“No! Really?” Morse responds. “You’ve got a problem with Bhatt? I didn’t think anyone had a problem with that little sweetheart.”

Natasha practically twitches at the comment and Morse catches on immediately.

“Ah,” she says sagely. “Not the ‘sweetheart’ type?”

Natasha keeps her expression carefully blank and focuses on wiping out the oily smudges her fingers had made. She can’t get rid of them, though. She’s just smearing them into something else entirely.

“Well, to each their own. I probably wouldn’t pursue one-on-one time with her, but at least she’s good at her job. I can appreciate that.”

“I can appreciate people who are good at their job,” Natasha responds, a little more stiffly than she’d entirely intended. Or maybe she’s trying to communicate how deeply her distaste for the current standard runs. Maybe trying to make friends. She sometimes loses track of her own motivations like that, when it’s not about something that matters.

“If you say so,” Morse allows with that tone that indicates less belief and more a lack of interest in the conversation.

Natasha squelches the reflex to defend herself. She’s not an untrained sub looking to please the first dom she collides with. And isn’t that just another fun part of being a SHIELD agent? Natasha had correctly guessed the orientation of barely half her own team. If it wasn’t considered needed-to-know for safety reasons, she’d still be on the fence about a few of them.

Not Morse, though. Morse was a dom on almost every level.

“I just can’t--” Natasha begins, but cuts herself off the moment Sanders steps into view. The room doesn’t come to attention – that’s the “the SHIELD way” but those still socializing in the corners move quickly to their seats.

Sanders has brought everyone coffee. It’s not specialized individual drinks, but it’s one of those boxes of with enough cups to go around.

That’s not the weird part.

The weird part is that everyone drinks it. All the time. Every time there’s a briefing, Sanders walks in with this coffee and absolutely no one questions it. They drink it. They don’t check it, or ask why he brought it, or question his motivations as squad leader and a dom in a mostly sub team. They just take the coffee at face value.

Natasha isn’t paying attention to the coffee today, though. She’s paying attention to the once-over Sanders is doing of the room. That unavoidable check that every agent completes in every room, for the rest of their lives. He’s going to see the fucking sweatpants and Natasha is practically vibrating with anticipation.

“All right, team, let’s get the started,” Sanders begins, clicking the screen behind him into a topographical map of god knows where. “I know we haven’t really finished getting to know our two newest members, but we’re all professionals. We’ve been cleared for some surveillance. I’ve been assured that this is going to be a strictly no contact mission, so I’m sure you’re all aware that we’ll end up dealing with the majority of the combat.”

Everyone laughs at the accurate joke, but Natasha can’t even summon a fake attempt. She is absolutely disturbed. If Bhatt can’t show up in uniform to a briefing, will she show up properly outfitted on a mission? Will she care for her weapon? Back up her teammate? Remember the fucking pick up coordinates?

Natasha cannot focus on the fucking briefing. She can’t take her eyes off of that face. That sweetly attentive face staring right at Agent Sanders like he’s god’s gift…to…mankind.

The idea that Bhatt is subbing for Sanders suddenly hits her like a wave of water, and she cannot believe it took this long for the idea to occur to her. How fucking dare Coulson talk to her with his head up his ass like he was some messianic figure, when he was dragging her back to this fucking third rate shitdick of a rat hole. Natasha doesn’t respect a lot, she’d be the first to admit it, but she respects the _fucking command structure_. This was how good agents got killed. “Team Lead” Sanders up there bringing coffee like he’s one of them, but he’s making the calls that will get Morse and Berger – not to mention newer members like Walsh and Natasha herself – killed because his primary is protecting the cunt he’s getting on the side.

“Seriously!” Morse’s voice suddenly breaks Natasha’s headspace. It’s startling enough that Natasha almost wrenches back Morse’s fingers from where they’re resting gently as a point of contact on Natasha’s arm.

“What?” Natasha says, too loudly for a briefing room. Quiet begins to invade as Sanders trails off.

“What's wrong with you?” Morse asks bluntly, and Natasha can't help flinging her arm out toward Bhatt, pointing in accusation. The confusion on everyone’s face is enough to send her over the edge. No anecdotes or personnel files have ever been able to claim Natasha as a coward.

“I refuse to work quietly with this kind of behavior!” she declares loudly. “I refuse to watch someone so blatantly out of dress code get away with it. It might not get anyone killed by itself, but when standards slip on the little things, the big things follow. I will not trust someone to have my back, or my teammates backs, when they can’t live up to the smallest standards.”

“Romanoff, I--” Sanders tries to interrupt her.

“Moreover,” Natasha plunges ahead, “I can’t even begin to guess what would influence you to let something like that slide. Are you seriously telling me that you’d let everyone in this room get away with that? Or is there something you’d like to tell me about how you and Bhatt spend your free time?”

“Romanoff!” Sanders snaps with all his authority as a dom, at the same time that Bhatt quietly squeaks, “I’m married!”

“Jesus, Romanoff,” Morse sighs, disappointment heavy in her voice. That’s what shuts her up mid-rant, really. A respected dom, cutting into Natasha soul with her disapproval. Sanders can go hang, but that one hurts, and Natasha purses her lips into silence.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” Sanders says in a clipped tone, and Natasha fights the urge to roll her eyes.

“No, wait,” he amends. “I know exactly where to begin. How dare you accuse your Team Leader and your follow agent of an inappropriate relationship with no other proof than your own rose-colored glasses? I don’t know what kind of places you’ve worked before, but we require actual evidence here at SHIELD, not just a random conclusions drawn from prejudice.”

Natasha crosses her legs and narrows her eyes.

“I didn’t accuse you of anything,” she points out on technicality. “I’m asking you what’s going on. I’ll be thrilled if you can offer another explanation for the favoritism at play right now?”

“I’m pregnant,” Bhatt snaps from down the table.

It actually takes Natasha a handful of seconds to process the statement. Years of conditioning mix with her ever-developing life changes, all placed in context of her growing hatred for Bhatt over the last half hour and...she can’t.

Sanders says something to her, she’s sure, but all she does is stand up and walk out of the room.

Morse follows her, probably because Sanders makes her. Morse is more the kind of person who will let you drown in your own bullshit if that’s what you want.

Maybe that’s disingenuous. Maybe that’s how Natasha is. Or how Natasha wants Morse to be. Everything is rolled up in too many layers, and the waves of apathetic exhaustion that used to be so few and far between are now an ever-present threat in the back of her mind.

“Here’s what you’re going to do,” Morse orders. “You’ll go back inside and apologize to both of them for your behavior. Apologize to the team for your lack of professionalism. Then you’ll sit your ass down and listen to the brief. You’ll complete your mission. And then we’ll deal with this the following day. Any questions?”

Natasha steps sideways into a different personality. One more suited to handling the layers of lies she's starting to set out like puzzle pieces, ready to be shaped into something else.

“Yes, ma’am,” she says calmly. Like this is a mission and she needs to appease her authority figures, even when she wasn’t in the wrong. Even if that had been a reasonable series of conclusion when…

_Pregnant?_

Appeasement might have been a good way to come at SHIELD in the first place, but hindsight is always 20/20.

She follows Morse back into the room and apologizes as ordered. She doesn’t know how to explain any of the rest of what happening in her head, and she doubts anyone in the room is interested in hearing about her own fucked up paradigms anyway.

“I expect you to behave like a professional over the next few days, regardless of your personal opinions,” Sanders orders sharply. “And I expect you to find time to either get to a Center tonight as part of your mission prep, or to make other arrangements. Get yourself dropped, Agent. In some way, shape, or form. That is an order. Understood?”

“Yes, sir,” Natasha answers, hating the order even though it was entirely reasonable.

The briefing continues after that, all without incident. And Bhatt isn’t going, it turns out. She’s just here to support her team and to stay up to date on their current Command Intent. She likes to be prepared for any contingency. She’d be in the field if she wasn’t close enough to her due date that SHIELD didn’t allow it. She’d risk everything for her team.

Natasha hadn’t even known she was pregnant.

Natasha hadn’t known SHIELD had a different uniform standard for pregnant women.

Natasha had forgotten pregnancy was a reality in the world at all.

That night she touches the inside of her thigh with barely blown out match heads until her grip on reality falters just enough that she can convince herself into a drop. It isn’t very long, and it isn’t very deep, but it follows the letter of the law. It will hold her over for a few more days at least.

She stares at the burn marks on her skin, hovering her way back and forth between a real drop and a bad drop. She can’t seem to push it either direction. Never can, these days. Like drinking and drinking and drinking and not being able to tell if you’re drunk or just giving up on the idea of being sober.

The marks will be gone, clean and unscarred by the time she gets back from the mission.

 

***

 

As Natasha pushes the last match into the soft skin of her thigh, the wrong bullet catches Riley’s wing mechanism in the wrong place. He spirals, leaving a trail of smoke. He’s too far away for Sam to hear the scream in person, and it’s distorted and blown out over the mics.

Sam can hear his own, though. He hears it for months. For years. It rips his throat so hard he feels the difference every time he swallows for the next week.

From Sam's height, the impact of body against sand is as silent as the grave.


	3. Chapter 3

It doesn’t fucking matter.

Sam thinks this to himself when he hears people talking around tables, corners, coffee shops, waiting rooms. Lines are the worst. Every time someone complains about a line, Sam feels battle adrenaline flood his system.

“You don’t know what it feels like!” he wants to scream. Hurry up and wait. And wait. And wait. And then twenty-eight minutes of life and death with only a fifty-fifty chance that whoever is calling the shots has the slightest idea what’s going on at all. Die and die and die a thousand times in your head before you ever realize it’s not your death you have to be afraid of.

People yelling at stop and go traffic when it’s going to to change eventually! Eventually you will no longer be sitting here. You’ll be wherever you’re going. And then you’ll be somewhere else after that. You’ll be somewhere, when so many people will be nowhere.

Sam walks out of the Center waiting room, even though it will put a flag on his name. Especially with the kind of submission he had asked for.

 

***

 

Natasha goes to a Center. She doesn’t like doing it, but sometimes it’s a necessity. Like resting a broken bone, or convincing an old mark that she didn’t mean to do them wrong when they show up again.

In the carefully monitored HIPAA-protected room, she sits on a bench and smoothes  her skirt gently over her knee with one hand. It’s blue and purple chiffon over a layer of darker blue. A slight and delicate fabric with something solid underneath. The look is complete with dangling silver earrings made of multiple strands twisting around each other.

Natasha is just perfecting the facial expressions inherent to her alias “Jessica”, when the dom enters the room. It’s a woman and, unlike with Natasha’s conscious decision to dress like her character, the dom in question instead appears unassuming until Natasha looks for the tells. For that something behind her eyes.

“My name is Melody,” the dom informs Natasha. Informs Jessica. Informs the two-in-one person she doesn’t know is in front of her.

“Nice to meet you, ma’am.”

“I’ve seen your intake forms, but why don’t you talk to me a little bit more about what you’re looking for?” Melody asks smoothly, and Natasha feels a little of the tension leave her body, because the question is perfect. Melody is moving around the room as she speaks, adjusting the angle of the bench, bringing down the lights the slightest bit. Making the space her own. The fact that she is asking Natasha for clarification on her desires doesn’t mean the show doesn’t belong to Melody. That happens sometimes when doms aren’t experience in or qualified for the role Natasha is asking them to play. A deeper sadism. The kind of behavior that used to be labeled as deviant before further research and social movements took the laws into hand.

“I’m honestly at your discretion,” Natasha says, demure. “Whatever you’d like.”

“So you’d be all right if I took your fingernails off one at a time?” Melody asks sweetly, and Natasha has to bite back a smile. She’s fairly certain anything that extreme is still illegal, at _least_ at Centers.

“Point taken,” she says out loud. “Apologies.”

“If you’re sorry, then show it by answering the question I asked.”

Melody finishes claiming ownership of the room and settles herself sideways on the same bench as Natasha, sitting straddling it so she can get right up in Natasha’s space.

Natasha allows it.

“I like knives,” she says. “I like their purity.”

“I can work with that,” Melody responds, twisted smile on her lips. Then she leans back a little before continuing, “We can’t do scarring here, as I’m sure you’re aware. But I can draw blood if you sign your consent. Is that what you’re telling me you’re looking for?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll get the waiver then, and we can talk more specifically in a moment.”

The paperwork is boring, and it’s the same as everywhere. Even country to country it never has anything but but the smallest variations. Natasha spends enough time staring at the tablet that she can sign it and fingerprint it without getting a lecture, and then she hands the device back obediently. Melody closes its cover and puts it on the floor near their feet.

“Here’s what I’ve got in mind then,” Melody says, gaining Natasha’s full attention. “I’ll have you strip, and then lie down on the vinyl. I will bind you down, type and severity of bonds to be discussed, and then I will draw lines in you with my knife to the depth of blood just beginning to drip around your body. We’ll continue either until you call a stop or I’m satisfied with the intensity of your drop. Whichever comes first. Any questions about what I’ve mentioned so far?”

“I don’t need to be restrained,” Natasha says.

She sees the slap coming, but lets it happen anyway. She’s pleasantly surprised that Melody has read her well enough to know how to respond to push back. Or, maybe it’s how “Jessica” wants Melody to respond. They’re all different layers of Natasha herself though. At this point, what does it really matter anyway?

“That is not relevant to what I asked you,” Melody reminds gently.

“No questions.”

“Anything about the scenarios that seems difficult, dangerous, or otherwise uncomfortable to you?”

“I prefer not to be tied down, ma’am. I can keep still. I always do.”

“I’ll think about it,” Melody intones dryly. “Anything that you wanted done here today that you feel won’t be addressed by the scene I explained a moment ago?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I know you denied it on the intake form, but I want to hear it from you. Is this, in any way, punishment? Are you seeking a safe form of self-punishment in this visit to the Center, or would you benefit from this scene taking place in a punishment mentality today?”

“No ma’am. I just need to drop.”

“Do you understand why I might be hesitant to take that at face value?”

“Because I tried to give you carte blanche a few minutes ago,” Natasha answers. “Which could easily be because I’m no longer concerned about my well being or don’t consider my well being as important as paying retribution.”

“Smart girl. Anything to say that would alleviate my concerns?”

“I’m not looking for punishment. Punishment is...different for me. I gave you carte blanche because I just don’t think anything you’re allowed to do in this place will break past any of my limits. I guess it’s possible, I just find it unlikely.”

Melody considers for a moment before nodding once, and then bending down to fish the tablet off the floor before standing up.

“In light of how well you’re behaving I’ll allow you to risk doing this unrestrained. However, I’m only giving you one chance. If I get any indication that you can’t control yourself, and that you’re putting yourself at risk by such, I’ll either bring the scene to a close or I’ll tie you down. My discretion either way. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. I’m going to turn this in and green light us. When I get back, I want you naked and face down on the vinyl there. Understood?”

“Yes ma’am.”

After Melody leaves the room, Natasha takes a few moments to stand and stretch, playing with the idea of taking too long just to see what Melody would do with a disobeyed order. But the idea leaves a sour taste in her mouth. It would defeat the purpose of being here. Change the whole dynamic.

Natasha pushes down the skirt and carefully steps out of where it’s pooled on the floor, folding it into a careful square. The button up top follows, also folded neatly. She wraps her underwear in her bra, placing that on top of the pile and, after a moment’s thought, adds her earrings and watch, too. The room is a little cold to be naked, but she can feel the heat beginning to pour out of the vents, courtesy of Melody preparing outside. Maybe even watching her.

Natasha lets “Jessica” take over the mind as she thinks about Melody outside. About being good. Buries the thoughts of guilt and weakness. Reaches for normalcy with timid tenacity.

The problem with a joint that dislocates often, is that it gets easier and easier to dislocate. Eventually, popping in and out of place becomes easier than anything else.

Jessica takes over the body. _Pop._

By the time Melody comes back into the room, Jessica is face down and breathing shallowly. Nervous anticipation. New doms always bring it out in her. It’s hard to read new people. You can only ever guess at their motivations.

But Melody begins slowly. Softly smoothing her hands down Jessica’s back like the beginning of a massage. She doesn’t say anything at first, just adjusts where Jessica’s arms are. Turns her head to the other side so her face is visible. Brushes the hair out her eyes, winding it and tucking it underneath her neck from the back.

“How are you feeling?” Melody asks.

“I’m fine.”

“Be more specific.”

“I’m relaxing. It’s getting warmer. I like that it’s getting warmer.”

Some distant part of Jessica is concerned with how quickly she’s dropping, already speaking in simple sentences and hyper-aware of points of contact. Her fingers flex automatically - not a twitch - when Melody lays the knife on her back. It’s not cutting anything. Just there, warming the metal with her own body heat.

It’s becoming increasingly clear how lucky a find Melody is. She notices the exact moment Jessica is ready and immediately picks up the knife again, now warm even along the edge. Which Jessica knows because it’s pressed to her skin with the slight sting of inevitability.

Melody doesn’t say anything, but she does telegraph the line of the knife with her fingernails, using her empty hand to lightly scratch a line from the top of Jessica’s right shoulder blade in a natural curve along the line of her back. It follows the dermatomes. That means the cut that comes will heal faster.

Natasha can justify Jessica knowing this fact because Jessica has a lot of experience with knifeplay. She would know something like that.

The incompatibility is driven back out of the mind by the sharp sting that begins to crawl its way down Natasha’s back. The line follows the fingernail sketch perfectly, and there’s no getting away from it. It just hurts with the whole mind, and the peace brings tears to the eye. She feels the muscles relax. Hadn’t even noticed how carefully she’d been holding herself until she gives way completely to what’s happening.

“Good girl,” the dom murmurs. “Be completely mine. Just for now.”

Jessica wants nothing else. So much so that she almost misses the fingernails tracing a matching line on the opposite side of her body. She does notice the knife when it follows. It’s hard not to notice the knife. Even when your skin is already used to it.

“Three more,” Melody promises.

The third line isn’t prefaced by fingernails. Instead it travels along the spine. Dangerous, in its own right, but the slide is so shallow. Like a papercut. And in that way it’s almost worse. More controlled. Slower. Like running up a hill and almost being at the top. Another hundred meters. Another fifty. A few more steps. A lengthened stride.

“Breathe,” Melody orders, pausing only two thirds down the back. Natasha hadn’t realized she wasn’t breathing. It’s cruel. So cruel, and Natasha sobs once through her teeth at the bliss of its uncompromising nature.

She forces several deep breaths, and only then does Melody continue the line.

The air pricks the skin. Like static or rain. These must be the air molecules of the world, ricocheting off of Natasha.

There is a brief gap of missed time. Small. Just the finishing off that third cut. Then Melody is petting Jessica’s sweaty hair. Saying nice things. They feel nice, even if the words are currently difficult to comprehend. Jessica wonders if that’s a sub thing. The ability to tell an intention of a word. Natasha thinks it is. At least to this degree and level of accuracy.

Melody moves to straddle Jessica’s hips to get a better angle for these last two. Fingernails again, between the first and the third line, and this one is deeper. Jessica whimpers and presses her fingers into the floor. Ten points of contact. Uncompromising concrete to match uncompromising steel.

This one is deep enough that the blood can be felt. It pools and runs along the skin like another finger tracing the way, and Jessica thinks about knives and all the ways they are used.

Jessica is a chef in a nearby restaurant. She is stressed and lonely, because her job takes all her time. Because she’s having difficulty controlling one of her cooks. A dom who doesn’t want to take orders from anyone, much less a sub. Jessica doesn’t know how to deal with the situation. She isn’t approved of. She can see it in the way the cook looks at her. And it’s spreading. She’s losing the respect of the others on her team because she can’t deal with this. She doesn’t even approve of herself. How is she supposed to command respect when she doesn’t look in the mirror anymore? She sees enough fear and hatred in others’ eyes. She can’t handle it in her own.

_Pop._

Natasha breaks into violent sobs. They shake her body, and Melody jerks the knife back with practiced quickness, keeping the bracing hand on Natasha’s back.

“Don’t stop,” Natasha begs.

It’s a good thing wounds bleed out. If they bled in then they’d keep carrying all the infection back into the body. So maybe ancient doctors were onto something with their leeches. Even if they didn’t get it quite right in the end.

Melody finishes. The rest of the lines don’t matter so much in any way except that they continue. The abscess is open already. It’s just a matter of waiting for it to clean itself out now.

By the time they’re done, the five semi-parallel lines are dripping blood around Natasha’s chest like a mockery of ribs. Just like Melody had promised.

They spend a long time there, afterwards. With Melody being nice with her words and her hands. Petting and praising and promising. But then Natasha is already halfway back to herself, so it doesn’t last. She indulges in what she feels she’s earned, but once she’s more out of subspace than in it, she pulls herself up to her hands and knees.

“Hey there,” Melody smiles. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

“This is the land of the dead,” Natasha says, because she’s forgotten how to be Jessica.

It’s clearly the wrong thing to say, and Melody it observant enough to know something has changed. It’s her job to read people, after all.

Natasha reads people very well, too. Maybe Natasha should work at a Center.

But, you have to be a whole person to work here, and Natasha is stained glass shards of other people matched up edge to edge.

“Thank you for your time,” Natasha says gently, climbing all the way to her feet.

“If you think I’m letting you leave when you’re clearly not back to yourself then you’re being purposefully obtuse,” Melody snaps. But Natasha brushes aside the dom’s voice with more ease than Jessica would have been able to. She’s tired, and she’s gotten what she needs so she gets dressed, continuing to push Melody aside to do so.

Melody calls for help, of course. Scared or confused or angry subs try to leave before it’s safe for them do to so all the time. There’s protocol for that. But there’s no protocol for Natasha, and she slips out of the Center, even with the deeper cuts still bleeding through her dark blue shirt.

The Center will give up looking for her eventually. They’ll have to. And if Melody drops over the interaction then it’ll be okay. Everyone should experience a bad drop once in a while. It keeps them human.

 

***

 

Sam doesn’t reenlist. His career counselor tries hard enough to change his mind that Sam suspects that Important phone calls were made to the poor guy’s office, but Sam doesn’t relent. He’s done. He doesn’t know what will happen if he goes back out there, but he knows it’ll be bad. Something irreversible is hovering on the edges of his mind. He can’t let it come to fruition on the battlefield.

“You could make sergeant major,” First Sergeant Vega says. “Easy.”

It’s the most flattering thing the guy has ever said to him, and Sam does the compliment the honor of actually considering it.

“Maybe,” he finally says. “Before. Maybe.”

“I still think you could now,” Vega says, contemplating his mostly-gone cigarette.

Sam doesn’t say anything for a long time. A really long time. He almost doesn’t speak at all but, fuck it, he’s getting out in a few weeks.

“I’ve changed as a dom,” he says, hoping Vega hears the explanation in what he’s about to say. “I’m...different now. I’m...sadistic.”

“Most doms are a little sadistic,” Vega responds, but he’s speaking slowly enough that Sam knows the man isn’t dismissing the comments. Especially since the Army is touchy about certain levels of sadism in their doms. The world might be more accepting than it was a decade ago, but the military will always move a few steps slower than its civilians.

“I’m scared I’m going to really hurt someone,” Sam tries again. “Or that I’ll never be able to satisfy myself again. Never be able to...have you ever thought about how there’s no word for the dom equivalent of subspace? Subs fall into a good drop and we...what?”

“Fly?” Vega offers, a smile playing on his lips. Sam snorts in obliging amusement.

“Sure,” he says, giving up. “Whatever.”

“I’m listening to you, man,” Vega says. “I just...I know you, Wilson. I don’t see that lasting in you. You’ll mourn. You’ll see where you’re angry. You’ll calm down. You’ll find yourself again.”

Sam wishes he smoked so you could take an angry drag. Instead he clenches his teeth on nothing and doesn’t respond, because he’s not about to explain the _want_ in these new thoughts. The rightness of them, really. Like they were always there and just...not ready yet. Like Riley had covered something different, in a different way. Because he and Riley had been a secret, and if Sam starts really talking he might not shut up.

“Maybe,” he says eventually, and walks away.

 

***

 

Natasha limps along.

She thinks the descriptive is funny, personally, because it’s exactly like a limp. Favoring the moments where she’s well and using them to prepare for and deal with the pain inbetween. Hop, skip, and jump.

She bloodies her hand punching her bathroom mirror, but she feels better the following week after seducing a mark that breaks her nose.

“You don’t have to take that,” Coulson says, disapproval evident as he eyes the bruising still lingering underneath her eyes. Natasha shrugs. It was the easiest way to get the information, and everyone knows it.

They move her from team to team, and she doesn’t take it personally. It suits her just fine anyway. It makes it more difficult for her superiors to keep track of her state. Instead, her missions speak for themselves, exactly like it should be.

She doesn’t go back to the Center with Melody, but she drives out to other towns on a rotating basis, carefully tracking her personalities that go with each name. She’s more careful. Sticks around longer. Doesn’t wait till the same level of desperation.

She just has to be careful. That’s all. She’s good at being careful. She’s had a lot of practice.

 

***

 

Sam builds a new person. It hurts the bury the man he was, but he calms to it eventually as he finds his feet as someone new.

And maybe it’s a little dramatic of him to think of it like that, but sue him. He’s owed his dramatics after everything he’s been through. He tells his therapist this as he slumps in his chair, and she laughs in genuine amusement when he says it.

“I’ll have to remember that one,” she nods. “We are owed our dramatics sometimes.”

“Exactly!” he exclaims, relieved.

“As long as you recognize you’re doing it,” she points out, and Sam nods. It seems like a reasonable limitation.

“Why that particular dramatic analogy?” she asks.

“It’s not entirely accurate,” he admits. “There’s a lot of myself that’s the same. There’s just...so much of me that has to change all at once. Some of it has to change so I can take care of myself. Some of it has to change so I can function within society like a reasonable human being. Some so I can sleep. Some so I can...dom.”

She catches the hesitation in the sentence. She always does.

“Having any luck with that?”

“Some. I found a sub in a Center in Bethesda who actually enjoys the way...I hurt...her.”

“If you can’t even say it outloud, I don’t imagine you’ve had as much luck as you were hoping.”

“I’m not really a Center kind of guy. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate its existence. But it’s not really...a permanent solution.”

“Why do you say that?”

Sam sighs heavily and rubs his face with both hands.

“How am I supposed to find someone like that for _me_ ? For a relationship? For more than necessary mental health and...and... _perfunctory_ stop-gaps?”

“If you discover a solid answer to that let me know. I could make a fortune as the best therapist in the world.”

Sam laughs with her again.

 

***

 

Sam takes up D&D. It’s the weirdest fucking shit, but somehow being someone else, instead of his _someone else,_ helps.

His character’s brother dies at one point, and Sam cries along with the whole party. His heart ends up in his stomach, but it doesn’t stay there. He sleeps without nightmares that night. Which is nice.

 

***

 

Natasha gets to know one of the doms in one of the Boston Centers. His name is David and he’s a sadist in the best way. They meet up unofficially. Have a few drinks. Hook up a few times. But David is a little too 24/7, and Natasha is a little too invested in demonstrating hypercompetence. She still sees him at the Center on occasion, but they stop meeting outside of it.

 

***

 

Sam learns he can order meals ready to cook from companies that deliver the boxes right to your door. He learns that he doesn’t hate cooking. He hates _grocery shopping_. And then he learns to bake pie crusts from scratch.

 

***

 

Natasha starts having dinner with Bobby Morse every now and then. It’s just dinner. Nothing else. They bitch about the job, about coworkers, about their fear that they’re going to die before they’ve lived. Which is a funny thing for people to think when they’ve had so many unique life experiences.

Bobby laughs when Natasha points this out, but it’s a cold laugh.

 

***

 

Sam starts calling his mother again.

 

***

 

Natasha gets through a conversation with Coulson that doesn’t make her feel like the scum of the earth.

 

***

 

They limp along.

 

***

 

And then, SHIELD finds Captain America encased in ice.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What events and timeline are you planning on using from the MCU, you ask? Well, the answer to that questions is very simple. Because I have no fucking idea. :D


End file.
